Over Parchment and Books
by The Bewitched One
Summary: The innocent meetings of two people in a library rapidly change longheld perceptions.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not mine. J K Rowling owns them all.

His head his bent forward, supported by his hands as he pours over his herbology book. From behind the book shelf, she watches his lips move as he silently recites the words. Outside the library, he is arrogant and unkind. But in the quiet sanctuary, he is almost human.

His muscles play against his school jumper, and the flickering candle on the table plays against his features.

She feels guilty for being even slightly intrigued by him. Malfoy is, and has always been, the most insufferable bastard that she'd ever met. Perhaps, she muses with her cheek pressed against the bookcase, that is why she is so fascinated by these rare glimpses of normality.

He turns the page, his chin dropping to the palm of his hand now as he releases a sigh. How long has he been here, lost in the texts? She knows he has been at the library every night for almost two weeks. Exams are months away and she wonders what has attracted him to reading so suddenly.

"You need to stop skulking behind the bookcase Granger," he tells her without looking up, without his expression even changing. Her first instinct is to flee, or to sink deeper into the shadows. He presses his finger to the line he is reading and lifts his eyes to her now. His irises glint like tarnished steel in the candlelight and she feels the weight of his stare on her. Slipping into the muted light, Hermione smoothes her hands over her robes. His lips quirk in a semi-smile of amusement, not greeting.

"I wasn't skulking," she replies sharply.

"You're here every night," he tells her, his palm flat against his book now. "You're not very well experienced in the art of sleuthing, Granger." He clears his books away from the opposite side of the table, leaving a space. "If you are here to study… then sit. Study." He eyes the door, "otherwise, stop spying on me."

Slipping her books from her satchel, Hermione hesitantly sits on the bench opposite him, her eyes roving his face as he drops his eyes to the book again. He has unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt, and rolled both his jumper and his shirt to his elbows. His forearms flex beneath his skin and she glances away, embarrassed that she is interested enough to notice.

Taking a quill from her bag, she unrolls parchment and begins to copy notes from her book, distinctly aware that she is alone with him, her enemy. She ought to be afraid. God knew, Malfoy was good at doing wicked things and if he wanted, he could hex her, especially with his wand sitting so close to his hand.

"Malfoy-" she begins, wondering what he ought to say.

"I'm reading, Granger," he replies tightly, his head bent. "You can't talk in the library." She blushes, her fingers tight around her quill as she wonders why she is allowing herself to sit here, wrapped up in silence and study with Draco Malfoy. She cannot find an answer and it disturbs her that she cannot adequately find excuses.

Neville Longbottom steps into the library. "Hey Hermione," he says when he catches a glimpse of his Gryffindor school-mate. "Oh," he pauses, his brow marred with a frown, "hey… Malfoy?" he says, as though he cannot quite believe that Slytherin's most repulsive is reading a book.

Malfoy grunts in response, his fingers absently massaging the back of his neck as he reads. Hermione's neat handwriting becomes an illegible scrawl as she trains herself to keep her eyes downcast and her curiosity at bay.

By ten thirty, Neville has packed up his things and they are alone again; the only two students preoccupied enough with studies to pour over books so late into the night. Hermione widens her eyes, fighting against wave of fatigue that almost consumes her.

The words are blurred and she feels her irises begin to sting. Stealing a look at Malfoy, she sees that he is still entirely focused on his book. Hermione slams her book shut and expects the interruption of the long silence to at least disturb him enough to glance up, but he does not.

Packing her things, she swings her legs over the bench and stands, slinging her satchel over her shoulder, hesitating at the end of the table.

The candle has burned down, and the light is so low that she wonders how they managed to read by it for so long.

"Good night, Malfoy," she says, despite herself. His pewter gaze flickers towards her face, and he nods sharply.

"Good night." She senses a perfunctory abruptness in the way he speaks and hurries off, taking what politeness she can without expecting more.

.-.-

She strides into the library as soon as classes have finished, and finds that, aside from two Hufflepuffs by the window, the room is empty, and she cannot squelch the feeling of regret that rises upon noticing the absence of Malfoy at his usual table.

Bypassing his table, she sits close to the O-P bookshelf, removing her books slowly. She knows there will be a came of cards in the common room in about fifteen minutes, yet she cannot convince herself that it would be more exciting than learning something new about Malfoy's enigmatic personality.

By six, she thinks he might not turn up at all, and she stops writing – stops maintaining the pretence that she is there to work. The room is almost empty anyway and the Ravenclaw's behind Aa-Ac are too far away to see her.

Malfoy's frame fills the doorway and her heart stills as she struggles not to stare at him. Dipping her quill into her ink, she bows her head and waits until he takes his seat at his table before she will allow herself to sneak a glance in his direction. She stiffens when four heavy volumes drop in front of her, banging against the desk so heavily that the candle's flame trembles at the gust of air pushed upwards.

Malfoy does not ask if he can sit opposite her, and she does not expect him too. The fact that he does is out-of-character enough. With her head down, she can still see him unclip his robe and toss it over the bench which creaks when he sits. After a long moment of rummaging in his bag, he whispers a curse and she glances up.

"Got a spare quill?" he asks and she blinks at him, momentarily struck by how there was no menace, no cruelty in his tone, but she hesitates too long and he becomes impatient. "Do you have a quill or not?" he snaps at her and she is jostled from her thoughts, searching her bag for the bundle of quills that she _always _carries. He is careful not to touch her as he takes it from her, but he does look at her, metallic eyes bright and not altogether unkind.

Why, she wonders with a sigh, does she find it so hard to look away when she is so completely repulsed by him? In the end it is he who looks away, flicking to a page he has bent the corner of the night before. He does not thank her for the lend of her quill, and like before, she does not expect it.

By the time she realises she has missed dinner, it is far too late and her stomach growls loudly. Malfoy tugs at his tie, pulling the silver and tree silk from around his neck and dropping it to the table between them. His sigh is intense, and ruffles the pages of his book. She wonders what the other pupils think of a Slytherin and a Gryffindor studying, side by side.

"Malfoy…?" she begins, her quill tight in her hand. His glare silences her. She swallows hard, her brows drawn together in a tight frown. She knows she ought to feel tense and uncomfortable, but their silent studying feels almost… familiar.

Tonight, Malfoy packs up first, gathering his belongings quietly. She doesn't want to look at him as though she expects him to speak to her, so she doesn't move.

"Goodnight Granger," he says and she struggles not to smile.

"Goodnight Draco," she replies and she knows that her usage of his first name was thrown him. The scowl on his lips tells her that he does not like it, but she cannot abide by their childish second-name calling as though they are sworn enemies; if they were, he would not have sat at her table tonight when there were so many others available.

When he disappears down the hall, she realises that his silver and emerald tie still lies by her hand. Touching it as though she expects it to burn her skin, Hermione is struck more by the emotions it evokes in her. An object of Slytherin… an object of _his_ and she clenches it tight in her fist.

Packing up her books, she shoves the tie into the pocket of her robe and blows out the candle, plunging her corner of the library into darkness.

Rushing into the corridor, she collides with him, her hands reaching out to grasp the thick material of his expensive robes. His eyes widen as she stumbles back into the wall, her mouth a rounded 'O' of surprise. "Granger," he growls, his hands closing around her shoulders, holding her upright.

"I found your tie," she rushes to say, pulling the strip of silk from her pocket. She squirms under his grasp, hating the illicit feeling of wrongness that engulfs her. "You left it in the library…" she continues hurriedly and he nods sharply, taking it from her trembling fingers.

"I came back for it," Malfoy says, releasing her. She clears her throat, forcing her embarrassment deep into her stomach. As he storms off, his robe billowing behind him, Hermione releases a sigh of relief and slumps back against the wall, totally unfamiliar with being in such close proximity to a Slytherin. She is surprised and a little unnerved at the affect of his touch.

She is a seventh year student, with classes and exams too important for dwellings on such trivial things as the prickles of desire – even if they are her first. Rushing off in the opposite direction, it takes from the library to the Gryffindor common room on the seventh floor before her blush disappears from her cheeks.

Ron glares at her when she steps inside the portrait hole.

"What's this I hear about you and Malfoy studying together?" he snaps and his chess game with Harry comes to a sudden stop. Hermione's shoulders burn where Malfoy had touched her, and she flushes again, as if in guilt.

"We do not study together," she snaps in reply, "we sit at the same table. We don't even talk." Ron's eyes narrow and she knows he is pissed off, that he feels somehow betrayed, but Hermione won't be bullied into relinquishing these moments she has with Draco Malfoy, even if she cannot understand the implications of them.

Climbing the stairs to her dormitory, Hermione shakes off her robe and throws it to her bed with a dramatic sigh. She has never felt so confused about anything before. In fact, where boys are concerned, Hermione has never felt confused at all. She liked boys, thought they were attractive and even appreciated good looks. But she was always too busy to dwell on it.

She remembers how his tie felt in her hand, exactly the same as Gryffindor's, except explicitly different. She wonders if he will be in the library the next day, and she finds that she sincerely hopes he is.

-.-.

She gets delayed by Professor McGonagall after Configuration, her last glass of the afternoon, and by the time she reaches the library, she is running. When she bursts into the room, Madam Pince glares, shooting a look of intense disapproval across the library. She expects better of Hermione Granger.

Malfoy lifts his head from his book, meets her eyes and smirks knowingly. She notices that his tie is still affixed tightly to his throat and his sleeves have not yet been rolled up. She notices also, that he is still using her quill, nestled neatly between his slender fingers. Her blush deepens in her cheeks and she shuffles towards his table, wondering if she should sit before him or sit somewhere else. Her hesitation earns her another glance from his silver eyes, heavily lidded.

"Sit," he commands and she obeys, her fingers trembling as she removes her dark arts book. Malfoy, who has never had any interest in her reading material before, reaches a hand out to snag the book from hers. She winces as his warm fingers caress the backs of hand. At first she thinks he might take it from her, but when she looks at his face, she sees words form on his lips. "You should pay particular attention to chapter fifteen," he tells her, his voice a whisper as his charcoal gaze sweeps across the room to where three Slytherins sit, heads bowed. "I believe we'll be moving unto The History of Dark Wizards soon."

She does not ask why he has volunteered this information, or even how he knows. She nods her head once, and flicks immediately to chapter fifteen, poising her quill over her parchment.

Why does she believe him? she wonders, resting her head against her palm as she writes. Three nights of sitting in the library with Malfoy and suddenly she is comfortable enough to believe the words he speaks to her – when he speaks.

His hand is massaging his neck again, his fingers and thumb rolling the tight muscles. She does not know how she aware of this, only that she is. She works quickly, her hand aching as she moves unto her fourth piece of parchment. Malfoy does not write as much as he reads, and she notices that he is no longer holding her quill in his hand. "Granger?" he says and she stiffens a little, the constant scrape of nib against parchment silenced for a moment.

"Can't you see I'm reading, Malfoy? You can't talk in the library." she says softly, a smirk playing at her lips, although she knows he cannot see it through the wavy curtain of her hair. She hopes he can tell by the teasing of her voice, however, that she is merely playing a game.

The Slytherins leave and Hermione realises that they've lapsed into something of a routine; always last to leave the library. If they continued much longer, rumours would circulate, for she didn't delude herself into believing that the other students had not noticed who she was sitting with.

Madam Pince leaves, trusting them enough to blow out the candles and make sure the library is not set on fire.

Hermione rolls her parchments, slipping them into her satchel before draping her robe over her shoulder. Draco looks up, his eyes so dark as to be almost black. "Tomorrow?" she asks and he blinks slowly at her before nodding. "Goodnight."

He sets his quill down. "Why do you come here?" he asks and she realises she is not prepared for conversation with Malfoy. He is the acid tongued boy that she hates, and when he speaks her name, she can still hear the superiority in his tone. Clutching her satchel in tight fists, she shakes her head.

"I don't know," she admits truthfully.

"There's rumours, you know," Draco tells her, straightening up, leaning away from the table. She notices that his blond hair is mussed from where his fingers had trailed through the silken strands.

"I know," she admits.

"Weasley is surely not amused…" Hermione nodded. "Or Potter?" she nodded again. "And yet, you still come." The candle flickers and shadows dance against the walls, over the leather books. "Interesting." Hermione cannot look into his eyes, for she knows the affect they will have on her. "You don't hate me?" he asks, and she cannot help but look at him now, mostly because she hadn't expected him to care whether she hated him or not.

"No, I don't hate you Draco," she replies softly. She does not return the question because she is afraid, dare she admit it, to hear the answer. "It's getting late." Draco inclines his head a little, silver-blond hair falling over his eyes. She shifts, releasing her tight fist; her knuckles ache.

"Indeed it is," he drawls, rolling his own parchments, hardly filled with notes at all. Hermione takes a slow step towards the entrance, wanting to be alone with her thoughts. "You hungry, Granger?" he asks as she almost steps backward into the corridor. She realises that, for the second evening in a row, she has skipped dinner.

"Not really," she lies, shaking her head.

"Come," he commands, slinging his black and green cloak over his shoulder, "we'll eat."

Consorting with the enemy, that's what she was doing.

Sneaking down into the kitchens, after hours, stealing food with the intentions of _eating_ with Draco Malfoy. She shakes her head, curls tumbling around her shoulders. Malfoy's expression is impassive as he descends the spiralling stairs, easing the kitchen door open. The elves have left for the night and the large room, the size of the entire Great Hall, is eerily quiet.

"I'm really not hungry," Hermione protests as Draco begins to open cupboards, rummaging through the supplies. His satchel lies on the floor and the parchments threaten to fall out. He finds containers of minestrone soup and smiles triumphantly, using his wand to heat it.

"Bread?" he asks and she shakes her head. "I've not poisoned it, you know," Draco tells her peevishly, pouring the thick reddish soup into a large cup. She takes it from him, the ceramic warming her icy fingers. She takes a sip and cannot help the moan of appreciation that spills from her lips. "So," Draco says, reclining back against the work bench, his fingers curl around his cup but he makes no effort to drink. She begins to wonder if he really has poisoned hers. "You're my sworn enemy… yet you're not afraid to share a table with me…?" Hermione meets his eyes, takes in his dishevelled look and shakes her head.

"Who declared us sworn enemies?" she asks, her eyebrow arched. He takes his first sip, as if to avoid answering. "I think you're misunderstood," she confides and his aluminium eyes glint dangerously, as though he's deeply insulted.

"I'm not. I'm as much a fucker as you think I am," he declares and she cannot help but smile. "Seriously, Granger, I was bred to despise you." So there it was. He did hate her after all. She cannot say that she is surprised.

"I know," she tells him, her fingers trembling, "but you invited me here, after all." Draco concedes with the briefest nod of his head. "Why?"

"Don't know," he retorts sharply, as though he cannot believe his own stupidity. "Take it or leave it." She folds her arms, tilting her chin.

"So," she begins, "you hate me, despise me-"

"I said I am _bred_ to hate you, I did not say that I do." Hermione pauses, her tongue stilling. She takes another drink, hoping that her blush is not evident. "We're not doing anything that we should be ashamed of," Draco tells her, setting his cup aside. Hermione glances down at her shoes.

"You're a Slytherin," she tells him, taking in his robes, his tie, the serpent badge sown unto his cloak. "I'm…" _not supposed to like you_.

"Yeah, I know," he replies, taking a few steps towards her. "I'm not supposed to either." She cannot look at him as he eases her cup from her fingers, the warmth of his touch electrifying and frightening. She was breaking so many rules. Draco's slender fingers flick one of her curls, his silver eyes watching it tremble. His lips twitch in concentration as he captures the strands between his thumb and forefinger, stroking her hair was though it were finely spun silk. She purses her lips, averting her gaze.

"I really ought to be getting back to the common room," she tells him, knowing that he doesn't have nearly half as far to go to his. "Thank you for the soup." She shifts, trying to move, only to feel his hand drop to the counter on either side of her, trapping her against the granite and wood. She looks at him, her lips parting as she tries to find something to say.

Something shifts between them and Hermione sees something change in his malice filled eyes. His carefully trained emotions waver a little and her fingers uncurl and move over the rich grey wool of his jumper. She is surprised to find that his stomach is tight and firm beneath the layers of his uniform. She is even more surprised by her sudden curiosity in what a boy's – a man's – body might feel like.

And further still, Hermione thinks, that the first man who would evoke such curiosity would be Malfoy.

She makes a fist around his tie, the knot tightening around his throat as her eyes rove his expressionless face for some hint of his intentions. Draco sneers at her and she is shocked to realise that she quite likes it.

She knows she could easily shove his chest and dislodge his hands from the counter, but she finds that, despite the warning bells in her head, she does not want to. "I see you're not as repulsed by a Malfoy as you'd like everyone to believe," he declares and she lowers her gaze, wondering if her mocha brown eyes are giving away the secrets of her soul. "Ah… the plot thickens." Hermione shakes her head, her lungs burning as she tries to breathe.

"You're quite insufferable, if you think I am at all, in any way, attracted to you, Malfoy." He lifts his hand from one side of the counter, and she knows she could go if she wanted. Slowly, he presses his palm to her chest, the heel of his hand touching the swell of her breast. His eyes are tarnished as his smile broadens.

"Your heart beats very fast, for a girl not at all interested in my offerings." Hermione's breath is sucked from lungs in a whoosh.

"You're a Slytherin," she repeats with a lowly hiss and he hums, his voice vibrating in his chest.

"My House does not determine my spirit, Granger," he says, and when his hand slips an inch lower and cups her breast through her own grey jumper, she sighs. Malfoy shifts closer, grinding his hips against the soft flesh of her belly. She whimpers, astounded to find that he is rigidly hard beneath his school trousers. No boy has touched her before, and she is not prepared for how the sweep of his thumb against her nipple makes her feel.

A rattle at the top of the stairs startles them both, and their heads swing towards the stone staircase. "Who's down there?" a voice calls and Draco's fingers fumble for hers, ensconcing her hand. "Show yourselves," she recognises the voice as that of Professor Snape and her heart freezes inside her chest. What shame will come upon her, for sneaking food with a Slytherin?

He reaches down, snags his satchel as steps, on tiptoes, towards the pantry at the back of the kitchen, as the shadow begins to descend. Hermione follows, her legs weak both from his touch and her fear.

The shape of a wand is visible on the stone wall, the shadow elongated and somehow more menacing. Hermione squeezes her lips together as Malfoy's hard body shoves her into the pantry and his hushed whisper commands a secret door to open.

At his command for light, the tip of his wand illuminates the long store corridor that dips and curves out of sight. Hermione realises that her two friends are not the only students to have knowledge of secret passageways.

"I'll find you," Snape hisses from outside the pantry as the stone wall eases shut, silencing his fury. She can feel Draco's hot breath against the back of her neck, and breaths a sigh of relief.

As if he realises what he is doing, Malfoy releases her hand sharply and points his wand towards the end of the corridor. "Where does lead?" she asks in a ragged whisper that comes from her fear-induced breathlessness. Malfoy's eyes glint in the light and her fear intensifies.

"To the Slytherin common room," he whispers back, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"I'd rather face Snape than be seen dead in there," she replies fiercely.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Granger, there's a passage way off to the right somewhere, I think you'll get to the sixth or seventh floor from there." She narrowed her eyes, clearly suspicious. "I'll take you."

They ascend what feels like three hundred steps, and by the time they reach the brick wall at the top, Hermione's calves burn. "See?" Draco says, commanding the door to open and behind, a green velveteen curtain hides the passage from anyone's prying eyes. She suspects a statue stands before the curtain, concealing the secret well. "Safe and sound," Malfoy says

"Thanks for the… soup…" she thinks about their cups, offering Snape proof that someone had been in the kitchens. "Oh," she sighs, slapping her hand to her lips. Draco chuckles, his fingers encircling her wrist.

"Don't worry," he tells her. "See you tomorrow in the library?" he asks and she wonders if perhaps she should tell him to get lost, after his groping her in the kitchen.

"Maybe," she replies cryptically and Draco's lips tilt in something resembling a smile.

"I'll see you then," he says and she is surprised by how much she wants him to kiss her.

But he turns and runs down the stairs, his cloak flapping behind him. Hermione listens until she cannot hear his footfalls anymore and slips out from behind the curtain. The wall slides shut behind her, and she finds herself on the other side of the landing from the portrait.

In the common room, Ron and Harry sit by the fireplace, their eyes blazing at her as she slips into the room.

"Where have _you_ been?" Ron asks and she drops her satchel to the sofa, unclipping her cloak.

"Studying," she replies, taking her shoes off. She wonders if 'pawed by Malfoy' is written across her features.

"With _Malfoy_?" Ron asks, and Harry nudges him.

"For awhile," Hermione says, and this is partly true. She can still feel his abdomen beneath her fingers and her skin feels as though it is burning. She feels betrayal pierce her heart. "Is there a problem?" she asks, ruffling her unkempt hair.

"You're bloody right there is!" Ron screeches, getting to his feet. "It's Malfoy we're talking about!" Harry's fingers curl around Ron's pyjama top and pull him back down into his armchair. Ron clears his throat. "You cannot possibly trust him." Hermione pulls her scarlet and gold tie from her throat, tossing it next to her cloak.

"No," she replies softly, "I do not trust him." This was entirely true, after all. "But when we're studying, we're not fighting and that's a start," she adds, gathering her belongings.

The start of what, she does not know.

.-.-.-.-.-

"Good morning!" Professor Dumbledore says to the Great Hall. "Before we begin with breakfast, I must remind all our students here, that the kitchen is expressly off limits! If you cannot be sure to be here in time for dinner, I suggest you wait until breakfast to eat. Professor Snape," he says, gesturing to the Potions master, whose expression was one of extraordinary annoyance, "stumbled upon some intruders last night."

Hermione keeps her eyes focused on the headmaster, but she can feel Draco's eyes burning into her, and she shifts, praying that her guilt is not apparent. Next to her, Harry mumbles something about it having to be a Slytherin and she feels altogether more guilty.

"Or maybe it was 'Mione," Ron suggests, his mood still out of sorts since their conversation the night before. "off to get some refreshments for her and Malfoy up in the library." Her head snaps towards him, her eyes glinting with the weight of the truth.

"Shut up, Ron!" she snaps, her gaze shifting to Malfoy, who was staring back. Dumbledore's lecture had come to a close and their breakfast had appeared on the table. She reached for toast, transfixed by Draco's lingering glare.

"Aren't you even concerned that everyone's talking about this?" her friend asks, his knife scraping his plate as he tears into his fried egg. She shakes her head, dried toast crumbling between her fingers.

"No, I'm not. Who cares what other people think?" No longer hungry, Hermione slides away from the table and storms off, her wavy hair bouncing furiously behind her. Ron winces, murmuring something about her being disgustingly blinded.

In the library, later, Hermione sits at the far end, away from where she has sat previously with Draco, perhaps to test whether he truly wanted to sit with her. She is unsurprised when he sits facing her, his blond hair falling over his handsome face.

"Boyfriend trouble?" he asks snidely with reference to her storming out of the Great Hall earlier. Hermione dips her pen into the ink well, rolling her eyes. "Let me guess, he thinks I am up to no good?" Before Hermione can answer, Harry and Ron appear at the end of the desk, their parchments in hand.

"Was hoping you could help with our homework," Harry says pleasantly, blanking Malfoy completely. She feels a tremendous amount of animosity towards her friends for their distrust of her judgement and even more when they both sit next to her, sandwiching her between them. Draco unpacks his text book, and Hermione cannot explain how she feels at his persistence.

Three hours of awkward silence passes and Hermione feels Draco's leg brush hers. She shoots him a look, but his head his bent and there is no indication that he even realises what he's doing. She shifts, surprised at how she tilts her leg, welcoming the warmth of his calf against hers. She remembers his hand on her, his palm against her breast and she blushes furiously at the thought.

How desperately she wants to be alone with him.

.-.-.-.-.-

"So that's _all_ you do?" Ron asks, incredulously. "Sit in the library without even talking?" Hermione folds her arms crossly.

"We don't have a terrible lot to say to each other," she replies.

"I can imagine he's a bit preoccupied with himself," Ron ruffs grumpily, knowing that he has spent an entire afternoon, needlessly, in the library. Hermione grinds her teeth together, thinking that sometimes her best friends provoke Draco's nasty comments. Then she realises that there is really no excuse for the names Malfoy had called them over the past six, almost seven, years.

"He was uncharacteristically quiet," Harry muses, "I think he's trying to win you over." Hermione's eyes flash and she tilts her chin. "Be careful, 'Mione. Slytherins are known for their cunning and you said it yourself, you don't trust him."

She doesn't. Trust isn't an easy emotion to come by and Hermione does not believe for a second that her, _relationship_, if that's what it is, with Draco, would in any way keep her safe from the cruelty that he could unleash.

They do not meet in the library on Saturday and Quidditch practice keeps them apart until they pass each other in the corridor on the fourth floor. She is alone, and he lags behind two of his so called friends, his robes unclipped. He wears a heavy green sweater and black trousers underneath, and she senses the same aristocracy from him as she always has.

She walks on, and knows that he has turned on his heel and is following her.

"What's wrong, Draco?" she asks without turning her head. She is afraid of how she might feel if she looks into his steely eyes.

"Granger," he says, his fingers clenching around her robe. "Managed to lose your bodyguards?" he asks and she stops, crossing her arms. "I'm sure they only mean to look out for you," he adds quickly, with a sickeningly sweet smile. She blinks slowly, allowing him to acknowledge that she is not in the least bit neither intimidated nor interested in his pretence.

"They do," she replies, striding on. He follows. "They don't think you can be trusted," she adds and Draco chuckles.

"They're right," he tells her. "Tell me, Hermione," she realises he has never called her by her first name before and it astounds her, "what do you think?" She straightens her spine, lowering her voice to a mere whisper.

"Like you said, you're ever bit the fucker I think you are." He reaches up to touch her cheek and she flinches back, afraid that someone might see. His hand freezes, midair, his fingers clenching. Hermione hates that instead of making her skin crawl, he makes it tingle – even without laying a single long finger on her.

"I'm going home for Christmas," he tells her, his voice low. "I won't be in the library." Hermione swallows her disappointment and nods. "Will you… will we… when I get back?" Straightening her spine, she inclines her head again, not entirely trusting her voice.

"Malfoy!" His friends call from the bottom of the corridor and they both turn their heads. He scowls.

"I have to go, Granger," he tells her, striding off, but she catches the whisper of 'Merry Christmas' on his lips, and she cannot be sure whether she finds his good nature endearing or just plain scary.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

On the third of January her classes begin again, and the students have all returned. She can not explain away the tingle of anticipation she feels at the prospect of meeting with Malfoy in the library again. Ron and Harry have been curiously quiet about it.

When she sees him, leaning over a heavy volume, he looks more intent than ever and she wonders whether or not she is welcome. Instead of dwelling on it too long, she sits opposite him and his eyes, the colour of rain-soaked slate look up at her. "Afternoon," he says politely and she almost tells him that she missed him, because she did.

"Good afternoon," she replies. The quill he uses is not hers, and she wonders where the brown and white feathered pen has gone. "Did you have a nice Christmas?" she asks politely and he shrugs indifferently.

"It was alright," he declares, "I…" there is hesitation in his voice, a dusky pink colouring on his cheeks, "here," he says instead, shoving a piece of tissue paper across the table to her. Hermione frowns, tentative when she reaches out to take it. When she unwraps it, the glint of sparkling red catches the candle light and she narrows her eyes, peeling back the tissue to reveal a long, silver bookmark – the metal exactly the same colour as his eyes, emblazoned with the Gryffindor colours. She touches the rubies.

Looking up at him, she cannot convey her thanks so instead, she curls her fingers around it and then says

"Is it cursed?"

The mood changes so rapidly that she cannot fathom what has transpired. His jaw goes tight, his eyes glinting so that they are almost a silvery-white. "Fuck you, Granger," he growls and she feels rotten.

"I didn't mean…"

He pulls his wand from his pocket, touches the bookmark and the rubies become emeralds. "There," he snaps, when she uncurls her fingers to look at what he has down, "now everyone will know it belonged to a Slytherin." Hermione tucks it into her pocket, feeling its heavy weight against her breast.

"That doesn't bother me," she tells him defiantly and when he turns his cheek, she notices the yellowish bruise that mars his skin. Without pausing for thought, she reaches across the table, touching her fingertips to his cheekbone. He winces, jerking back from her. "What _happened_ to you?" she asks, finding that she is fiercely furious. Malfoy cannot look at her now. "Draco," she insists firmly and he sighs.

"I didn't mind my tongue," he replies briskly, "and I was reprimanded for it." She suspects he has earned his wound at the hands of his cruel father, but she cannot bring herself to ask. "Stop staring," he commands her with a growl, but she cannot and her inability to look away draws his eyes back to hers. He recognises her sympathy at once and he cannot handle it. "I don't need your concern, Granger. Understand?"

"Draco-"

"And stop calling me Draco as though we're friends. We're _not_ friends." She wants to ask the meaning of the bookmark but she does not. Instead, she turns her attention to her book and they lapse into their usual, working silence. Malfoy does not look up at her and she does not look up at him.

Tonight they work well into the early hours, and she wonders what it is that she is studying so intently for. Then she realises that, while she is in the library with Malfoy, she is not studying at all. Instead, there is a pretence of work while she spends countless hours thinking about him, trying to unwrap him as she had the bookmark.

Resting her forehead on her arms for a moment, she contemplates this dramatic change in her feelings for Draco Malfoy.

She feels his hand on her shoulder, pushing aside tendrils of impossible hair, and she jerks upright, surprise to find that he has packed up, and that he is sitting next to her. "You fell asleep," he whispered, "it's almost two thirty." She needs to be up for classes in a matter of hours.

The candle is a stub, the flame running out of wick to burn. Hermione begins to roll her parchment, close her book. Draco helps her, opening her satchel and slipping her books into the bag. Their silence is companionable and this is something she is still not accustomed to. "Tomorrow?" he asks her and she smoothes her skirt over her thighs, to her knees, where she thinks it is respectable to keep the hem.

"Why am I here?" she asks him and he shifts closer on the long bench. Her eyes flick towards the entrance, which is dark and quiet. They are entirely alone. He wants to say something, but his lips move silently and she cannot fathom why he would feel so awkward.

"Don't know," he says at last, shrugging inside his robe. "It's foolish… I really… find you rather annoying." Hermione chuckles, only because she can understand this point entirely. Instead of being hurt, she merely shrugs. "And lovely." There is a liquid mercury glint in his eyes and she feels breathless all of a sudden. "Come on, Granger, you know I want you."

She does, but she has not admitted it to herself because it sounds so absurd.

"I guess," she replies, unable to maintain his gaze. "Who hit you?" Draco sinks his fingers into her hair, the wavy strands curling around his hand, and she feels his fingertips against her scalp, caressing with a gentleness she could never, not in a million years, have associated with Draco Malfoy.

"My father," he whispers against her lips, "and it's none of your business. Do you understand?" She nods. Even though she expects it, she is still surprised when his soft lips brush hers, a ghostly touch that is so fleeting; she wonders whether he kissed her at all. Her lips part, as if to voice this, and his mouth crushes hers and she tastes him – the forbidden illicitness of him. His fingers caress the back of her neck as his tongue slips into her mouth, meeting hers in a frenzied dance.

Hermione sinks into him, their chests pressed together as he shifts on the bench, drawing her close. Her fingers dare to touch him, and sink into the thick woollen jumper he wears. She remembers the kitchen, and how his body felt beneath his uniform.

His tongue brushes her pallet and she trembles when it tickles, drawing her nipples into tight points. He kisses like he talks, fierce and pointedly. She cannot express how much she enjoys the taste of him. His hands wander over her back, tracing her spine and she arches into him, breaking their kiss long enough to whisper an urgent plea.

"Granger," he hisses.

"Malfoy," she replies, sinking her fingers into his soft blond hair. "So bad…" he hums in agreement and when he breaks their kiss, she knows she feels something for him that is worse than being illicit. It is downright foolish. She does not loathe him and it frightens her to think that she is being duped into believing there is an ounce of good in him.

"I want to touch you," he tells her and he is not requesting. "Not tonight though… it's late. We'll need time." Hermione's heart stills in her chest when she speaks.

"How about Saturday?" Draco chuckles mischievously and she almost sinks into his embrace again.

"Saturday will be good," he agrees, brushing her hair from her cheeks. "You best hope Potter and Weasley are in bed when you get back," he says against her lips, and she finds that she opens her mouth to welcome his soft tongue, "because you have 'tainted by a Slytherin' written all over you."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

_The next chapter will take place on Saturday. _

_Please excuse any mistakes in this. There is a great chance I have switched tenses but I have to go to work now and I do not have time to read it right now._

_Please review._


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: _We're both British. That's the only thing that J K Rowling and I have in common. She owns these characters and I suspected she'd be scandalised if she knew that I am doing with the hateful Draco Malfoy, but who cares? He's hot. No infringement intended.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The fact that he thinks she is pure enough to be tainted plays heavily on Hermione's mind as she gets undressed for bed, his searing kiss still burning her lips. She wonders if he has a suspicion about her virginity and she wonders whether that is what he intends on taking on Saturday.

She cannot sleep, as she pulls her blankets to her chin and stares at the canopy above her head. Her eyes don't see the silken draperies, but instead she vividly replays their final moments in the library, guiltily blushing into the dark as her body responds to the memory and she is surprised – horrified even – to find that there is an odd pulsing between her thighs that she has _never_ experienced before.

Hermione hears her heartbeat thudding in her ears and she presses her cool fingers to her fevered cheeks, and four words screech echoingly inside her ears; _I kissed Draco Malfoy_.

What will Harry say? she wonders and then she winces; What will Ronald say? She can imagine his cheeks burning red, his eyes wide as he removes his wand and promises to ensure Draco will never kiss anyone else. She clamps her hand over her mouth, promising herself that her, whatever, with him, will remain their secret.

In Transfiguration the next day, Professor McGonagall asks them to turn their feathers into birds, and Hermione turns hers into a beautiful cooing dove and earns gasps of delight from those who only managed ravens. When Draco creates a chirping red-breasted robin that flies around the room and out the window, Hermione beams, releasing her dove to fly after it. No one else notices the fleeing, momentary glance that passes between them and she is grateful.

In the garden, when she is reading, she reaches into her pocket and marks her place with the stunning silver and emerald bookmark that Draco gave her, and she finds that she is not repulsed by it. Perhaps he has given it to her purely as a goodwill gesture, although she cannot help the fragments of distrust that linger persistently in her mind.

Draco saunters past, his feet crunching fresh snow as he steadfastly refrains from looking at her, his body sheathed in his long cloak. Hermione wonders what it will be like, some Saturday, when she will know exactly what he hides beneath his uniform. The peculiar throbbing begins again and she tries to focus her attentions on something other than him.

When he reaches the arched doorway to the castle, Draco turns briefly and his slate eyes linger on her for a moment, she feels her spine prickle and guilt swell inside her heart. How underhand she is, for feeling such powerful emotions.

Draco is dark and she knows that he harbours a million secrets under those liquid eyes, but she cannot help but feel as though she is drawn to his every command, as if under a bewitching curse. The light reflects on his bruise and she feels a deep sense of anger at the insufferably cruel man who marked his flawless skin.

"Wotcha thinkin' about?" Ginny asks later, when Hermione has finished her homework. She doesn't meet Draco in the library because she thinks it will be too obvious where she is going on Saturday. Ron's sister, Hermione's closest female friend, is surprisingly shrewd when it comes to guessing what is bothering her, but in this case, she is miles off.

"School stuff?" she asks, sitting cross legged on the bed. Hermione hums noncommittally, barely listening because she is suddenly struck by the realisation that, when the war with Voldemort finally occurs, she and Draco will be on opposites sides in a battle that is far more serious than whether Gryffindor or Slytherin win the House Cup.

"Yes," she says, hugging her knees, "school stuff." Ginny touches her tongue to the corner of her lips, observing Hermione from two beds away.

"School stuff or a school boy?" she asks, and the immediate flicker in Hermione's eyes betrays her desire to keep her own secrets. "A Slytherin boy, perhaps?" Hermione shakes her head fiercely, unwilling to admit that she would have anything to do with a Slytherin. "Ron's been stomping about because he reckons Malfoy's trying to dupe you into believing he's, like, alright." Hermione makes a rude sound with her tongue – a sort of hiss as she rolls her eyes.

"He's not bloody 'alright'," she insists, but her half-heartedness is apparent. Ginny doesn't believer her, but she does not pursue the issue either and Hermione goes back to thinking about how she would cope if Malfoy was her sworn enemy and if their antics were more serious than their badly veiled games.

Struggling with her books the next day, Hermione knocks into a coat of armour on the second floor and the volumes fly across the floor, the ancient statue lilting forward a little. She struggles to fix his crooked posture and mumbles a curse under her breath, knowing that her delay will have her late for herbology.

The armour chinks and she turns back to the book on the floor, finding Malfoy behind her, the books piled neatly under his arm. "Having problems, Granger?" he asks, a wicked gleam in his eye; it is the first time he has spoken to her since their clandestine kiss in the library and she sees a perfect reflection of it in his irises. Taking her books, she shakes her head.

"I'm fine," she insists and he nods.

"Yes you are," he agrees with a cheeky wink. She blushes. "Saturday isn't far away, Granger," he tells her.

"What's happening on Saturday?" she asks as though she has no idea what he is talking about and Draco lovely features darken – he doesn't like to be played because he is the player. She tilts her chin in calm defiance, clutching her books to her chest. He ushers her into a darkened alcove, his lean, firm body pressed against hers for no other reason than because there is no room to move. His arousal brushes her hip and she stifles a moan that rises of its own free in her throat.

"You know what's happening on Saturday, Granger," he tells her, his hands cupping her cheeks, holding her head steady as he glares dangerously into her eyes. She feels hypnotised and wonders if involving herself with him was a good idea. "No point in denying it." She shakes her head slowly, promising that she won't play games with him again. He looks pleased, leaning down to kiss her. She tilts her head, her lips parting in sweet, delirious anticipation. Her joy is snatched away when he leans back, smirking wickedly. "Not yet," he tells her, sweeping along the corridor.

Hermione feels cheated, furious with herself for the traitorous thud of her heart in her chest. "Fuck you, Malfoy!" she calls out, hating the crudeness of her own voice. She is rewarded with a cold laugh that was merely an extension of his cruel words. Smoothing her hands over her uniform, Hermione makes her way to Herbology where she knows Draco will already be.

She is the last to arrive in the greenhouse and she quickly apologises for delaying the class, steadfastly refusing to look in Malfoy's direction as she takes her place beside Harry. Professor Sprout wants them to get their fingers dirty with making a soil fertile enough to grow one of her obscure plants, and when she asks the class if they know anything about it, Hermione, who does, keeps her head down.

"Somethin' Granger doesn't know?" Draco asks with a sneer, but she doesn't meet his gaze, sinking her fingers into the moist soil.

"Perhaps you can teach her then," Professor Sprout declares irritably – mostly because she's never been particularly fond of Draco, even if his grades are always high. "Since you know so much about it, you can be her partner." A protest forms on Hermione's lips as she lifts her head, startled and quite furious that, in punishing Malfoy, Sprout was punishing her, too. "Go on," the professor insists, urging Draco to the other side of the table, where a Slytherin wouldn't be seen dead.

The Gryffindors crane their necks, smirking. Ron scowls. "Why do we have to end up with fucking Malfoy?" he hisses and Professor Sprout glares.

"Ten points from Gryffindor for cursing!" she declares and Ron's cheeks flush brightly.

"Better than being put over in Slytherin," he whispers to Harry who keeps his head down.

Draco pulls the pot from Hermione's hands, sinking his long fingers into the moist dirt. He is scowling and she cannot look at him because she suspects that he blames her for his misfortune, somehow. "Pass the pellets, Granger," he commands, tipping his blond head towards the container of slug-repellent pellets. Hermione chews the inside of her mouth, reaching across the table.

His dirty fingers brush her hand and knows this movement is intentional; a badly veiled attempt at reminding her of exactly what he does to her – as if she could forget!

"It wouldn't kill you to tell her Hermione once in awhile," Ron snaps from behind Harry. Draco doesn't look up from his work.

"It wouldn't kill you to mind your own business, Weasley." He had called her Hermione before, and she remembers the moment fondly. She hadn't felt like a mere inconvenience to him, then. "Don't hear her complaining…" Hermione growled.

"Malfoy," she snapped with a hard warning in her tone, "don't."

The fact that he obeys her command tells their spectators more than either Hermione or Malfoy realise; for Draco would never obey another, much less a mudblood Gryffindor. Whispers circulate through the greenhouse and Hermione struggles to ignore them, realising the error of her words. Draco, his face was expressionless as ever, impresses Professor Sprout no end, with the quality of their soil.

"Well!" she exclaims, "it just goes to show what the brilliant minds of Gryffindor and Slytherin can achieve when put together." Hermione shakes off her Herbology overcoat, packing things away as quickly as she can without meeting anyone's gaze. Draco strides back to his side of the table, collecting his satchel and pulling on his robe. Three Slytherins glare at him and he glares back.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" he snaps at them, striding from the greenhouse with Professor Sprout moaning that good things with Slytherin never last.

"Ten points from Slytherin," she calls through the open doors, but Malfoy doesn't look back.

.-.-.-

"What is going _on_?" Ginny asks, "there's rumours spreading through this building like _crazy_." Hermione changes into her jeans, pulling her hair into an unkempt ponytail.

"Let them spread," she insists grumpily, "I'm tired of justifying myself." Ginny folds her arms, tilting her chin.

"You can tell me," she urges quietly, "I won't tell Harry." Hermione breathes deeply.

"There's nothing to tell," she lies, "if anyone is looking for me I'll be-"

"In the library. Yeah, we know, Hermione."

She knows that she shouldn't chance a meeting with Draco, when her plans for Saturday could be so easily foiled, but after Herbology that afternoon, she needs to see him, to know if he's heard rumours, too.

He is the only person in the library and looks up immediately when she strides to his desk. "People are speculating," she tells him, but he's interested only in her downy blue sweater. His hand twitches over his book, a small smile tweaking his lips. "Draco!" she snaps and his pewter eyes are on her face again.

"Let them speculate," he tells her. "We're not doing anything wrong." Hermione knows this is exactly that Malfoy will say.

"Your idea of wrong and mine are entirely two different things," she tells him, folding her arms. His gaze darkens to the colour of the ocean on a stormy day. She watches the maelstrom of colours swirl and knows she has stepped over a boundary.

"You might find that my idea of right and wrong are not what you perceive them to be," he snaps, turning back to his page. "Never judge a book by its cover, _you_, of all people ought to know that, Granger." She feels embarrassed and shifts uncomfortably, irritated when his eyes begin their languid travels along her body again. "I know what's wrong and this… _isn't_."

She thinks about it, as the days progress and wonders if she is perhaps trying to convince herself it's not wrong because she cannot resist it; much the way an alcoholic will tell himself that another drink won't kill him. Hermione thinks death is perhaps a very melodramatic scenario for her forbidden meetings with Draco, but she will, at the very least, get hurt. It is surely a certainty.

She pays strict attention in class because she cannot bear to look at Draco, knowing that he is mentally undressing her, touching her, kissing her. Snape makes a comment about her being twice the insufferable know it all than usual and all of the Slytherins laugh – Malfoy included. She shrugs.

"Better to be a know-it-all than know nothing at all," she says and Snape glares at her. He doesn't deduct House points for cheek and this makes a tremendous change. Hermione continues to mix her potions, silent with Neville's brow furrowed as he desperately wants to ask her what's gotten into her.

By Saturday, Hermione cannot concentrate and she feels sick, pacing her dormitory with trembling fingers. At quarter past one, an owl pecks the glass outside and she jolts, distinctly aware that there is only a single person who would be sending an owl to her.

Taking the parchment from the brown owl's leg, she unrolls it, recognising from several hours in the library, the distinctive scrawl.

_Meet me at the statue of Merlin on the sixth floor at one forty. _

She tears the parchment into pieces, committing the note to memory. Ginny slips into the dormitory and asks her if she wants to play cards. Hermione combs her hair, knotting it into a loose plait before sliding two pins into her impossible curls.

"No thanks," she tells her friend, "I'm going to do some work." She wears jeans and a loose sweater because she doesn't want Draco to think she is trying to entice him. Ginny snorts.

"You're always working," she complains and Hermione smiles patiently.

"It's an important year." She feels rotten for lying. "I'm going to the library to get some books." She drapes her scarlet and black cloak over her shoulders, fastening to clasp because sometimes the corridors are chilly, especially in winter. "See you later?"

She is at the statue five minutes early, wrinkling her nose because she knows she seems too eager and after their near kiss in the alcove before Herbology, Hermione does not want Malfoy to think she is too keen. By ten minutes to, she beings to wonder if he's playing an elaborate game and humiliation stains her cheeks. What if he just wants to embarrass her?

"Come," his voice whispers, reaching behind the statue and grabbing the hood of her cloak in a tight fist. Hermione refrains from gasping, her lips parting in protest as she stumbles behind the lovely marble statue to the narrow gap in the wall behind. "You need to keep quiet," Draco tells her, knocking his shoulder against the rough black stone.

"Where are we?" Hermione demands and he glares.

"I said _quiet_." The stone grinds and the hidden brick in the wall shifts, revealing an even narrower gap than the one they've squeezed into. His fingers shift over her back, urging her into the narrow space. She wonders if she might suffocate, and slides further in.

When the gap widens, she almost stumbles at the unexpectedness of it, and he holds her. Behind them, the stone slips back into place and they are trapped behind the great statue of Merlin.

"How do you know about these places?" she asks, pawing the darkness. She cannot feel the walls now, and the darkness engulfs her. "Do you have a map?" She hopes Harry doesn't look at _his_ map today, otherwise their secret will be exposed.

"Move forward, watch your step." She thinks there is nothing romantic about their cold, damp surroundings, but yet, thrill clasps her heart and she's almost breathless as she follows his command. "A little too the left," he tells her and a soft glow appears at the end of the tunnel. Hermione tries to see beyond, to catch a glimpse of their destination.

The room is not large, and there aren't many such rooms in the castle. In fact, it's a tiny chamber with stone floors, torches on the wall, a book shelf, a cello propped against the wall, a sofa and a writing bureau that looks as though it has seen better days. Hermione notices that there are no portraits on the wall and she is almost thankful because she doesn't want their prying eyes on her.

"Where are we?" she asks.

"Dunno," Malfoy replies, "I only find these plays, I don't create them." She wonders how much such places he had found before. "I can enchant the cello to play music," he says, unclipping his cloak. Hermione shakes her head.

"You and I never talk," she sighs, "it's almost like you don't want to." Draco turns to the cello, points his wand and utters a hushed command. The cello vibrates through the chamber with delicious music that sends a tingle along her spine.

"I don't. We always end up fighting," he replies and she shoots him a glare, surprised to find that he is actually smiling. "Take a seat Granger, I'm not going to bite." She doesn't believe him entirely. There is a wickedness in his eyes that is intensified by the flickering orange flames. "Or maybe I will." She releases the catch on her own robe, holding it in her arms as she sits awkwardly on the edge of the large sofa.

"Don't tease," she says harshly, crossing her legs. The cello's lovely melody shifts, dipping low and seductive. Draco watches it for a long moment, as though fascinated by the vibrating strings. Hermione tugs at a loose curl of wool on her jumper, eyes downcast as her stomach clenches with apprehension.

"Granger," he says and she lifts her gaze, shocked by the level of compassion she sees in his. "If you're not sure… if you really feel so guilty…" Hermione smoothes her fingers over her cheeks, setting her robe aside.

"I don't feel guilty, Draco," she insists despite knowing this isn't altogether true. "Won't you sit down?" He edges across the room, his long legs bending as he sits beside her, devoid of his usual cocky arrogance.

"Will Potter and Weasley be looking for you?" he asks and she tilts her body, reaching across the gap between them to brush his blond hair from his forehead. He glances up, following the path of her fingers. She shrugs. "Why did you hide behind the bookcases, Granger?" Draco asks, his fingers curling around her wrist and putting a stop to her ministrations. His fingertips brush her knuckles.

"You intrigue me," she replies, tracing invisible patterns on her jeans. "You're so… _hateful_. No one in Gryffindor likes you. Or Ravenclaw. Or Huf-"

"I get the point," he says rigidly, lifting his hand to silence her. Hermione smiles.

"Can you blame them?" she says, stilling when his fingers release the band that keeps her plait tight. He eases the knots, freeing her hair and she trembles because she cannot understand his fascination with it.

"You'd look so good as a Slytherin," he tells her, twisting her hair into a haphazard chignon. "Elegant and inaccessible. Slytherin women are known for being unattainable." Hermione feels his hand move along the back of her neck, stroking the baby soft hairs there.

"Pansy and Millicent are certainly not unattainable," she scoffs peevishly. "I'm not becoming a Slytherin for you, Draco. I don't like you that much." He smirks at her, his smile never quite friendly.

"I'm surprised that you like me at all," he tells her and she levels her gaze on him.

"You're always so miserable," she sighs, as though she has just realised it. Draco frowns at her and she cannot help but look at the remaining yellow of his bruise. It's almost invisible now. "As though you have been trapped." Malfoy's features tighten in annoyance.

"I'm not miserable," he insists with a lowly growl. "Don't need your sympathy," he grumps and she folds her arms. How can she be expected to let him touch her when she won't offer anything of himself? She wonders if he is really so emotionally damaged that he is incapable of letting anyone in.

She shrugs. "Don't you ever just want to have fun?" Hermione asks and Draco tilts his head.

"I do have fun," he assures her, their knees touching when he moves towards her. She feels his fingers sink into her hair; his obsession, caressing her skull as he did in the kitchen. She loses herself in the sensation of his touch, her eyes fluttering shut as she feels the stirrings in her body.

She passes her fingers over the thick wool jumper he wears, his forearms flexing beneath her touch. She is pleased that she has an affect on him. His lips pass fleetingly across her brow and Hermione pulls an unsteady breath into her lungs. Draco's fingers fall from her hair, slipping over her breasts. She feels so inexperienced and she cannot be sure that her fleeting touches are enough to arouse him. Malfoy's strokes draw her nipples into tight points beneath her jumper and bites down hard on the malleable flesh inside her mouth.

He leans forward, capturing her lips in a tentative kiss that is altogether different than the one in the library; it is anticipated, expected and she finds that her expectations are fulfilled as his hot tongue brushes her lower lip and urges her to open her mouth to him. As deftly as he kisses, Draco slips his hand beneath her jumper and his fingers tease her nipples through her simple cotton bra and Hermione realises that no boy has ever touched her there and she is altogether unfamiliar with the sensation – but she wants to know it. She wants to get used to having his hands on her.

She wonders if she should tell him about her inexperience, but his tongue commands silence and she sinks into his embrace when his arms slip around her and his deft fingers flick the clasp at her back. When his soft bare palms test the weight of her breasts, she feels the pulsating between her thighs that she has begun to associate with arousal. With Draco.

One hand releases her breast and takes her hand, drawing her hand to his arousal, hard beneath his trousers. She feels her eyes fly open in surprise because she cannot believe she has aroused him so much. He groans against her mouth and she grinds her palm against him.

"…drive me crazy, Granger," he is murmuring and she is astounded at her own confidence when she pulls his zipper down and insinuates her hand inside his trousers. Draco kisses the milky column of her throat, tasting her pulse point with his tongue and she decides that it is, if anything, erotic.

His tongue is hot against her skin and she hisses, sinking her fingers into the too-long strands of his blond hair. He is tender, caressing her until she is so aroused that her limbs feel liquid.

Easing her jumper over her head, Hermione thinks she should have worn something sexier underneath – but then, she's never really had any use for flirty bras and Draco does not seem to notice as he eases the straps over her arms and tosses it aside. She feels vulnerable, exposed, and her instinct is to cover her breasts. Malfoy's fingers are tight around her wrist.

"Don't," he commands, the sound guttural.

The cello plays on and she has almost forgotten about it, until the soft music swells, as if reflecting their pace. She leans back against the arm of the sofa and he drinks in the sight of her, pure and beautiful, her body responding to his touch. Leaning over her, he insinuates himself between her thighs, nestling his arousal against the vee of her legs.

His fingers unbutton her jeans and she knows that she will be his within a matter of moments. She will belong to Draco Malfoy in ways only a person's lover can and she is not altogether sure she is prepared.

He undresses her as though he knows what he is doing and when she is naked her leans over her, brushing her hair from her face. "Are you okay?" he asks and she thinks this is the first time he has been concerned about her welfare. She nods, squeezing her eyes shut as she steels herself for the intrusion; the pain.

Draco strokes her temples. "Hermione, look at me," he tells her and she cannot possibly associate Malfoy with such softly spoken words. She gazes into his eyes, more beautiful than she ever remembers them being before. "Is this…?" she nods, tears prickling the sides of her eyes. He sighs, lowering his mouth to hers as he slips into her, slowly at first. She is surprised to find that his caresses and kisses have prepared her body for him and he moves within her with long, agonisingly pleasurable strokes.

She whispers his name, locking her legs behind him, her fingers digging into his scalp as she arches her body against him, praying that the exhilaration she feels will last forever. "Draco…" she says and the name feels so _wrong_. Trembling waves pulsate through her body and she cannot explain them, only that they occur when Draco's fingers stroke the tight nub between her thighs. He seems to know what he is doing and she likes that he does.

When his thumb presses hard to the slick spot, she opens her mouth and cries out to loud that the cello is drown out by the sound of her pleasure and Malfoy stiffens, arching his back and glaring into her eyes a swirling look she has never been before but frightens her more than one of his malicious looks.

He seems almost… fond of her.

She closes her eyes against the unexpected emotions as warm wetness floods her insides and she sighs, her muscles lax and tired. Hermione cannot move but his weight on top of her feels wonderful. The look in his eyes haunts her and she cannot keep still.

"Draco," she says but he shushes her, asking if they can be quiet.

"Can't we just… spend some time together before you start regretting it?" She shifts, raking her fingers through his hair.

"I don't," she promises him. Something has changed between them now and Hermione knows she cannot reverse it. Draco is no longer her enemy, the Slytherin boy that she is obliged to hate. "Will you ever tell me about your life, Draco?" she asks and he stiffens in her arms, his silken skin taut beneath her fingertips. She eases the muscles that knot along his back and after a long moment, he relaxes.

"It's not that easy, Granger," he whispers against the swell of her breast. She realises that he is still inside her and she feels oddly comforted by it.

The cello plays still, a sleepy tune that almost lulls her to sleep, except she cannot help but replay his words in her mind. What isn't easy?

"I have to go, Malfoy," she whispers against his hair and he sighs against her.

"Not yet," he commands and she supposes a few more minutes cannot hurt.

The real trouble will begin when they leave the chamber and become Hermione Granger the Gryffindor and Draco Malfoy the Slytherin again.

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_Do you want a story or do you think it is better to end it here? Please review. I LOVE reviews. _


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